


short story of samuel and sam

by ongoingshow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cello, Characters Watching Supernatural, Friends to Lovers, Musicians, Piano, spn characters are only mentioned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 14:48:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11233239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ongoingshow/pseuds/ongoingshow
Summary: Samuel wishes he was more like Sam.





	short story of samuel and sam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fullbodykiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullbodykiss/gifts).



> this is my first ever sory that i uploaded:)

“Yo, Sam. Can you pass me a pencil?”  
Samuel doesn’t like being called Sam, he wishes he would though. But he isn’t a Sam.  
He knows a few Sams, but associates the name with only one person, or more accurately one character. Sam Winchester, one of the protagonists of his favorite TV series, the only one he really likes actually. Sam Winchester. Tall, broad shoulders, tan, his hair sort of short but long in a style that only Sam Winchester can pull off. Fearless, brave, smart, kind, fair, but also uncompromising when it comes to the safety and wellbeing of his older brother Dean. Samuel wishes he had a brother like Dean. He often catches himself confusing the character Sam and the in real life actor Jared. Sam and Dean seem so real to him. They breathe, the laugh, the suffer, they break down. The characters seem so real unlike the perfectly manicured, well dressed protagonists of series that his cousin Mira is so fond of. No, they seem to smell sweaty after a long day in the Impala with poor to no air conditioning, they seem to forget to shave, they seem to laugh at pointless, bad jokes.  
Samuel hardly ever sees any Sam in himself. He’s calm and shy when it comes to strangers, yes. But other other than that he doesn’t have any sam-ish qualities, or at least he has never noticed them. He finds happiness in music, when he plays the piano, when he hears the calming music of nature on his way home, even in the rhythmic tapping of raindrops against his window.  
He passes the pencil to a guy he’s never talked to before. He’s not a talkative guy, but the teachers don’t really mind because most of the time his marks are okay. As soon as the teacher looks away, the guy that asked for the pencil stops pretending to solve the algebra tasks and starts bothering one of the girls sitting in front of him.

Sam would stand up for her. Samuel imagines doing so.  
He stares at the complex mess of numbers, letters and glyphs; he pinches the soft skin on the inside of his pale arm. He imagines Sam’s broad shouldered stature hovering over the bullies.  
Sam would intimidate them; maybe even punch the leader because he would get away with it. Samuel wouldn’t, and that’s why Samuel pretends to focus on his calculus tasks.  
Lunch is the same as usual. He doesn’t buy anything in the cafeteria, queues and people pressuring him as he would try to order aren’t really his thing. He sits at a small table with a blond girl he has art class with. She brings her own food too, today it’s tofu with rice. She always has rice, just as Samuel always brings his sandwich made from untoasted toast with turkey and cocktail sauce. He wonders whether she is vegan. Now that he thinks about it he has never seen her eat meat or diary. He wonders about her story, but he doesn’t dare talking to her. He doesn’t know much about her except for the fact that she’s extraordinarily good at art. He isn’t sure how to describe her style since he doesn’t know much about art. He’s only seen her doing sketches, usually with pencil. Her works aren’t photorealistically sketched out into the smallest detail, but every single stroke of her pencil seems to tell a story. In the beginning of the year, Samuel had felt the need to make conversation, but he had quickly realized that the petite girl was just keen as on making conversation as he was himself. Not very much. So, they had made a silent agreement to just sit there in silence until lunch finishes. Maybe one day, when the silence becomes awkward. Today, and every day until today, and hopefully every day until the school year ends, it’s not. 

After seventh period, he hurries outside, tries to look ordinary and invisible. Sam would walk confidently. The camera would focus on him, one head taller than everyone, close up to his face, his unmistakable frown shows up as he scans over the parking lot, cut to Dean leaning against the Impala. “Had fun at school, Sammy?”  
As usually, no one pays attention as Samuel skulks over the parking lot. He doesn’t take the bus, he hates the overwhelming noise as about 60 teenagers talk at the same time. Samuel cannot remember the last time he took the bus as well as he cannot remember the last time he talked to someone after school. As usually, he takes an idle, quiet road. As he walks, he starts to tap a rythm against his leg, three times with his right hand in the same time as he taps four times with his other hand. He’s had to practice months until he was able to do it as casually as he is now, but his way home is long, his patience unexhausted and there are so many melodies in his head. Today’s melody is rather calm with a hint of gloominess. When he gets home, he tries to write down the parts that still stick to his brain. His finger dance over the keys, G minor, C minor, A major, D minor, usually F minor but sometimes F major to add a little bit of melancholy.  
Around 7 o clock, his mother arrives home. She works three different jobs, “to pay the bills”, but Samuel knows she puts most money onto his college fond. He isn’t sure whether he wants to go to college, school has made him despise all the things he used to like. He hopes it’s just high school. He wants to go to Julliard, the school of arts, the school of endless opportunities for young musicians. At least that’s what he heard, but getting into Julliard is a bitch. He should really start playing in an orchestra but so far his anxiety has prevented him from doing so. Socializing isn't really his cup of tea, or more specifically, his cup of coffee. Double espresso with two sugars and almond milk. “How was school, Samuel?”, his mother calls from the kitchen. “As usual”, he calls back in an attempt to sound cheerful and motivated.  
“I overheard two people talking at the gas station today. The symphony orchestra is in search of a new piano player. Apparently the former piano player left to go to Frisco conservatory”  
“Uh, he must be very good then”, Samuel responses. “So are you, Samuel. Don’t you wanna audition for the orchestra? It might part of your ticket to a music college”, his mom tries to convince him. “What about Texas, actually? I saw it on TV the other day, the campus seems really nice and you wouldn’t be that far away”, she adds. What she means is “Texas isn’t as expensive as Julliard, Samuel”. Samuel takes a few seconds to response. “Texas focuses on jazz, mom. I’m a classical pianist. Columbia University on the other hand has a program which allows students to exchange with Julliard students for a semester. That might be a compromise since Julliard is extremely elite-ish”  
His mother responses with a tired smile. Samuel feels guilty for acting snobby, for not accepting the truth that only one out of hundred musicians make it through the audition and one of 10 Julliard graduates actually make it as musicians. He doesn’t want to end up teaching little kids the piano. He wouldn’t have wanted to teach himself either. He used to start crying as soon as he missed a few keys but now, he’s gotten used to it, and he’s practicing harder than ever. To make up for all the stress he’s made his mother go through, all the extra shifts at the gas station and the coffee shop, all the times he had woken her up with his late night or early morning piano sessions (early bird gets the worm right) he hears himself saying: “I’ll audition for the symphony orchestra”  
His mother turns around in shock. “What did you just say?!”  
Her delighted voice sounds more beautiful than ‘Ballade pour Amelie’, Samuels forever favorite melody to him. For a moment the dark circles under eyes seem to fade, the harsh lines on her forehead even out, she looks fifteen years younger. For a second, Samuel forgets the stress, pressure and anxiety filled audition he will have to go through in less than a month. 

Fast forward to three weeks later. Samuel tried to cancel twice. Both times his mother encouraged him and he just couldn’t stand the disappointment in her voice when she says “You have to do what feels right for you”. Deep within himself Samuel knows that auditioning is the right, even though it’s a motherfucking asshole, as he screams out one time after another three hour practicing session after which he feels to be worse than before. But nevertheless, he auditions. He’s prepared Chopin’s ‘Raindrop Prélude’, one of his personal favorites, the ‘Opus 13 no 8’ Beethoven Sonata, a classic that has a schizophrenic touch to it but has some pretty impressive runs and is technically quite demanding, and ‘Rondo Alla Turca’ by Mozart, the piece that everyone auditions with. It’s not too difficult and the faster it’s played, the more impressive it sounds. The moment he steps into the auditioning room, he forgets to breathe. There are only three people sitting at a long table, and they all look at him with an expectant expression. They seem friendly, and when Samuel stutters when he quickly introduces himself they don’t shift in their plastic chairs and they don’t check the time on the big watch right beside the entrance. ‘Where are you from?’s, ‘How long have you been playing?’s (Uh about uh 13 years, Sir) and ‘Do you need someone to turn the sheet music’s (”No thank you”) get exchanged. They want to hear the Rondo first and than the Beethoven Sonata. When Samuel turns the piano chair a bit lower, his fingers shake and for a moment he’s happy that he didn’t bring any sheet music because he probably wouldn’t be able to arrange them. His palms are sweaty when he sits down again, and he messes up the beginning of the Rondo. He takes a deep breath and starts again, this time it goes quite smoothly. He even dares to speed up the tempo when he plays the theme again. During the Beethoven piece, he feels confident enough to add a few decorating semiquavers in the second part of the movement. When he finishes, the look on the jury’s faces are unidentifiable. “Thank you very much, we will send you an email with the result within the next three days, can you please send in number 7? Have a nice day” and faster than he had expected, it’s all over. Not that big deal, actually. After sending in number 7, a man in his thirties that must have played many auditions already, Samuel leaves the building and scans over the parking lot in search for his mother. There she is in the old blue Ford. “Did it all go well?”, she asks with so much hope in her voice, Samuel feels tears of happiness and relief rising. He clears his throat and puts on a wide smile to hide his glossy eyes. “Yes mom, it all went fine. I’m not sure if I get in though, out of the eight contestants most seemed quite experienced.”  
“They might be experienced but they might not play with your passion, Samuel”  
She doesn’t say, it, but Samuel can feel the “I’m proud of you, not matter whether you get in or not” in the air.


End file.
